
At rest
but not resting —
scaled wings
skip
with erratic
intent
in fiery
flight
.
.
.
— C.Birde, 8/18

At rest
but not resting —
scaled wings
skip
with erratic
intent
in fiery
flight
.
.
.
— C.Birde, 8/18

One-hundred-
six steps
along the
gray stone
sand-strewn
river
of dream
where half-light
swims
pools
shimmers
over slate’s
puzzle work
& words school
like surfacing
fish.
— C.Birde, 8/18


(For Lena.)
Thirst or
hunger?
Confusion, pain, or
exhaustion?
The differences are
arguable;
secret, subtle;
mysterious.
Tell me the way.
My ear —
seeking answers,
guidance —
bends toward
silence.
— C.Birde, 8/18

The weight
of fevered air
bears
down —
each furred breath
of moisture
an
oppression.
— C.Birde, 8/18

What if
the words won’t
come
the spark won’t
catch
the page remains
a complex
blank
of possibility —
unshaped,
unformed,
unsculpted.
What if the muse,
accepting of all
blame,
remains
on the periphery,
out of reach?
Beyond the barrier,
Gray Catbird sings
improvisation…
My hand,
cramps.
What if
What if
What
i
f
?
— C.Birde, 8/18

Hands clasped,
she peers past
slender fingers
with the largest,
warmest,
brownest
eye.
— C.Birde, 7/18

Patient night —
with winking, starless
eye and
half-moon smile —
She conducts
the crickets’ song,
distorted by the hum
from window fan,
by ceiling fan’s
arrhythmic tick…
And,
beneath it all,
the thought-loop whirs,
that well-oiled
Mobius strip of
shoulds &
woulds &
musts &
haven’ts.
Loop and whir.
Repeat.
Night’s darkness thins,
rinsed pale and
watered
by dawn’s soft steps.
Tomorrow —
surely —
sleep will
come.
— C.Birde, 7/18

She is not lost,
locked away,
asleep in some rose-tangled
tower.
We have bartered
Her
for immediacy,
for convenience.
— C.Birde, 7/18

Words —
tossed,
hurled,
let slip
in the deep, dark, pre-dawn
night;
cold,
hard,
twisted
to self-serving purpose —
toll
like a rusted bell,
like a heart hollowed
out.
— C.Birde, 7/18

Benefits,
elements,
lunatics,
& surreys –
all improved
with a touch
of fringe.
— C.Birde, 7/18